


Undercover is Lonely

by akite



Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akite/pseuds/akite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the VecchioFest Live Journal Community.<br/>Prompt #14: The further I go more letters from home never arrive<br/>And I’m alone, all of the way, all of the way<br/>Alone and alive ("rowing song")</p>
    </blockquote>





	Undercover is Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the VecchioFest Live Journal Community.  
> Prompt #14: The further I go more letters from home never arrive  
> And I’m alone, all of the way, all of the way  
> Alone and alive ("rowing song")

A. Kite (November 2006)

It's funny; Fraser would probably call it ironic. The nose kept me from doing undercover work as a cop, but it's perfect for going under with the Mob. How funny is it that I'm a dead ringer for a dead gangster?

Armando lived the American dream. Starting out as an orphan, running numbers in Brooklyn. Working his way up the ranks of the Mafia. Now he's the Bookman. Sitting at the right hand of one of the biggest Dons in the country and living the good life. Well, he was, anyway - until he got himself killed in a car crash. Now I'm the one living the good life.

Anything I want, all I have to do is snap my fingers. Booze, women, getting somebody whacked if they look at me the wrong way, you name it. The only things I can't have are what I want the most: my life, my family, a friend. Yeah, I've got a fancy house with a fancy butler and goombahs that jump anytime I say frog, and I'm the loneliest guy in Vegas.

Armando never let anyone get too close. He's got no wife, no girlfriend. Once a week, he has one of guys get him a call girl. He doesn't care what they look like, so I don't either. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, it doesn't matter. As long as it's never the same girl twice, I go along with it. I close my eyes and let them blow me. Then they get paid and leave. Easy. I don't talk to them. I don't look at them. I can't. I'm afraid they'll look back at me and see Ray Vecchio.

One of Langoustini's habits I approve of is reading the newspapers every day from all over the country. Chicago papers too, of course. Once in a while, I'll see something about Fraser and the guy they've got playing me. Never any pictures, though, which I guess is smart. At least I know Fraser's still there, still fighting the good fight.

Other than that one postcard I was able to sneak out to Benny, I've had no contact with anyone from my former life. From Ray Vecchio's life. There's a voice on the phone every few weeks telling me I'm doing good, but it's not much reassurance. The longer I'm here the farther from Chicago - and my life there - I get.

I'm afraid I'll never get back.


End file.
